Mongo shivered. The wind had come up, and that made the air even chillier. He again looked at his watch. Be nice to leave this fucking roof and get back out to Malibu.
And come to think of it, he just might stop off in Hollywood. There was nothing like a blow job for lifting your spirits. After that he’d go to the cottage and drink some wine, smoke a joint. There was a steak in the fridge, and that would go good tonight.
Meantime, this place was made even more uncomfortable by the way he had to keep an eye on the entrance to the garage. Squinting down at it, looking for a gray Ford sedan. With a prick at the wheel.
He shifted his position and for about the tenth time peered through the rifle’s telescopic sight. Amazing how it brought things up close. You had to keep the rifle perfectly still, though. Any jiggling would throw off the image. So you held steady, while you put the crosshairs on the target.
Come to think of it, there was a windage adjustment on the scope, and with the breeze picking up he probably ought to use it. He estimated the wind at about fifteen miles per hour and twisted the little wheel accordingly.
Again he resumed his wait. And with each passing moment grew more exasperated. Finally he told himself it was time to go. Stuff the rifle into the golf bag and take off.
And then, there was the Ford.
There was no mistaking it, even though there were probably a thousand vehicles like it in Southern California. The car had stopped opposite the garage entrance, the driver waiting for a gap in the traffic so he could make the left turn. And that provided Mongo with an unobstructed view.
He was tempted to take his shot now, instead of waiting for the cop to leave his car in the garage and come out onto the sidewalk. Looking through the scope, he could make out Barker’s face quite clearly.
But then the traffic parted, and the Ford zipped across the opposite lane and disappeared into the garage.
Take your time, Mongo told himself. Let him come out, and make sure. Put the crosshairs on him, and don’t just pull the trigger, squeeze it gently.
Seconds passed, and finally the cop emerged. He strode up the sidewalk, his back to Mongo as he made his way past other pedestrians.
Make it a head shot, Mongo thought. As Culebra had said, the heavy slug would pop his head like a grape. Worked with Culebra, didn’t it?
So do it now.
Mongo lined up the crosshairs on the black hair just above the cop’s shirt collar. He took a deep breath, held steady, and squeezed.
The rifle fired with a thunderous noise and a hard kick against his shoulder. The report was so loud it startled him and made his ears ring, even though he’d anticipated it.
But the big weapon had done its work.
When he reached the public garage Barker took a ticket and parked the Ford, then walked up the ramp to the sidewalk. There was a florist shop along here, he recalled. He’d stop in and buy some flowers for Dana.
He’d taken a half-dozen steps when he saw an older woman coming toward him. She was well dressed and burdened with a large Nordstrom shopping bag and some other bundles, along with her purse. Just as he passed her she struggled to control the load, and instinctively he put out a hand to steady her.
At that instant he heard the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle and a bullet whizzed past his ear like an angry hornet. The projectile tore a chunk of concrete out of the sidewalk in front of him and ricocheted off into the night.
The woman cried out, and Barker grabbed her arm and pulled her with him behind a car that was parked at the curb. Her packages spilled onto the street.
“Help!” she shrieked. “They’re trying to kill us! Call the police!”
“Take it easy,” Barker said. “Just keep your head down and everything’ll be okay.”
Mongo couldn’t believe it. He’d actually missed! Just as he’d fired, the son of a bitch had turned his head!
And now he couldn’t get off another shot because Barker had ducked behind a car, dragging some woman with him. But maybe he should shoot again anyway, put a few more bullets through the car in hopes of hitting him. He raised the rifle and again squinted through the scope.
Hold on, he told himself. Bad enough that you missed with the first one. That shot had made a hell of a lot of noise, and spraying the car with bullets would be like turning a spotlight on yourself.
He lowered the rifle and looked down at the sidewalk. Other pedestrians had gathered and were obviously in an uproar. One guy was pointing up at the roof.
That did it. Mongo shoved the rifle back into the golf bag and dropped the cover over the stock. Crouching low, he scuttled crablike to the door, ran through it, and went down the stairs as the door slammed shut behind him.
Once on the floor below he had to wait for the elevator, standing on one foot and then the other before the damn thing finally arrived. He jumped in and pressed the button for the lobby, hoping the car wouldn’t stop on the way.
But it did. On 6 it came to a halt, and a man and a woman got in and seeing the golf bag gave him a funny look. Okay, so going out to play golf on a dark night would strike anybody as loony, but they could mind their own goddamn business. Mongo leaned against the back wall of the elevator car, his baseball cap pulled down to obscure his face, and ignored them.
When they stepped out into the lobby, he heard the sound of police sirens. He went out onto the street and walked in the opposite direction from the garage. When enough time had passed, he’d go back for his car.
The sound of the sirens grew louder, and he picked up his pace.
Barker waited a few beats and then got to his feet. He continued to reassure the woman and she quieted down. By now she apparently was as humiliated and bewildered as she was fearful. Her packages and her purse were strewn about the sidewalk, and he collected them and returned them to her. She walked off, seeming somewhat dazed.
Meanwhile the onlookers went on buzzing about what had occurred, or what they thought had occurred, ascribing the incident to the war between gang members. One man was pointing up at a building and yelling that he’d seen a muzzle flash on the roof.
Barker stepped around them and walked on up the sidewalk. As he did, he saw that the bullet had torn a fair-sized hole in the concrete. He had no doubt as to what type of weapon had fired it.
Nor who the shooter had been.
The realization jolted him. The murderer must have found out who he was and had tried to kill him, using the same high-powered rifle that had blown Culebra away.
But how had the guy learned his identity? And how did he know Barker would be here tonight?
For that matter, what else did he know? That Barker had come to LA to track the killer of Catherine Delure and her manager? And had learned it was Culebra who built the weapon that fired the fléchettes?
Did he also know Barker had begun to uncover the facts surrounding a scam in the movie business?
Perhaps he did know those things. Certainly any of it would make him determined to kill the cop who was trailing him.
Unless, Barker thought, the cop killed him first.
Once again a familiar picture appeared in his mind. He saw the well-dressed man in the videotape, strolling nonchalantly along the corridor in the Sherry-Netherland Hotel. Flashing his fuck-you grin at the camera.
Remembering that, Barker felt deep loathing. This case, this hunt, this contest, had become intensely personal. And the enemy had come within an inch of winning.
The sound of police sirens reached Barker’s ears. Proper procedure called for him to inform the LAPD that someone had just fired a rifle at him.
But the hell with that. He kept going.
46.
Dana was waiting for Barker to arrive. She’d been thinking about him all day and was looking forward to seeing him. In addition to the passion he brought out in her, he made her feel secure, and that in a
relationship was a new experience for her. No wonder she’d fallen in love with him.
While she waited, she turned on the TV and surfed channels. There was a discussion on one of the talk shows about an upcoming special on the Delure case. Curious, she turned up the volume.
The interviewer was a vapid blonde who was pretending to be excited. Her interviewee was a TV producer who had the look of an artist, which was probably how he saw himself. Long shaggy hair, a wispy beard, wearing a chambray work shirt.
“The show sounds fascinating,” the blonde gushed. “But isn’t it a little early to be doing a special on the Delure case when the murders haven’t been solved?”
The question was a softball, of course, and the producer caught it deftly. “Oh no,” he said. “In fact, that’s what makes it so relevant. Just think about what happened here. A famous star and her manager were shot by a cold-blooded killer so he could steal the star’s jewels. And the police haven’t any idea as to who he was, or how to find him. I think the case may go down in history as one of the all-time great unsolved mysteries.”
“You mean like Jack the Ripper, who killed all those women in London and was never caught?”
“Exactly. Or Lizzie Borden, in Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1892. It’s believed Lizzie used an axe to hack both her parents to death, but she was never convicted.”
“Amazing.”
“And yet as famous as those cases were and still are, they can’t compare with Delure. No case can. But the police have failed to produce even one credible suspect.”
“So you’re saying they haven’t done a good job of investigating the case?”
“Obviously they haven’t. Swarms of detectives are working on it, and what have they accomplished? Nothing.”
“If that’s so, what will the audience learn when your show goes on the air?”
“That’s the part that makes it so compelling. The audience will hear from experts such as Mark Fuhrman, who was a detective on the O.J. case, and a number of others. They’ll describe mistakes the cops have made, and what they should have done to solve the case.”
“Sounds intriguing. And by the way, what impact have the murders had on the ordinary citizen? How have they affected the man in the street?”
“That’s been simply phenomenal. Not only was Catherine Delure a huge star, but she was loved by millions of fans. Her latest film was released just at the time she met her death. People everywhere are aware of the human drama in that, and they’re deeply involved emotionally.”
“I’m sure that’s true. And of course, Hot Cargo has become a big hit.”
“One of the biggest. The picture is a favorite to win an Academy Award, and Catherine Delure is likely to win Best Actress. That’s why we expect our show to attract a television audience of the same proportions.”
“Another big hit.”
“No question about it. Viewers will see and hear comments by people who actually were on hand when the murders took place.”
“Who, for example?”
“For one, Ms. Delure’s bodyguard, Chuck Diggs. The killer claimed to be from a New York radio station, which was a lie, of course. But Chuck made a careful check and was assured that the man had legitimate business with Ms. Delure. Chuck then went over every inch of him to be sure he wasn’t carrying a weapon of any kind.”
“And Diggs is sure the killer was unarmed?”
“He’s positive. Otherwise he never would have let him into the hotel suite.”
“So then how were the murders committed? Both Ms. Delure and her manager were shot, right?”
“Yes, they were. And that’s led some observers to think the weapon was already in the suite.”
“So the killer knew it was there waiting for him? Does that mean it was an inside job?”
“We’ll leave that to the audience to decide.”
“But it certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?”
“As I say, watch the show, and hear what Chuck and others can tell you.”
“Fine, but who else was there? What about Ms. Delure’s secretary? Will she appear in the show?”
“We believe she will. As everyone knows by now, her name is Dana Laramie. She’s still in a state of shock because of what she witnessed that day, and until now she’s declined our invitation to be interviewed.”
Oh my God, Dana thought. You mean I wouldn’t let myself be used by you and your crappy network.
“But it’s really her duty,” he said, “to let the world know what she saw. So we’re hoping she’ll realize that and come around.”
Keep hoping, you asshole. Forever.
The TV interviewer pressed on. “And do you also have other members of the movie’s cast?”
“Oh, yes. Ms. Delure’s costar Terry Falcon has some great insights that he’s never revealed till now.”
That’s enough, Dana thought. The so-called interview was nothing but a massive promo—and a huge con job. She hit the remote and turned off the set.
The buzzer sounded, and she hoped that meant Barker had arrived. When she opened the door, he greeted her with a smile and a bouquet of yellow roses.
“Figured you might like these,” he said.
“I love them!”
She took the bouquet from him and inhaled their fragrance. “They’re beautiful. And you were very nice to bring them. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” He kissed her and followed her into the kitchen, where she got out a vase and put the roses into them.
She looked at him. “Everything okay, Jeb? You seem a little tense.”
“Me? No.”
“You sure? No new problems?”
“Not a one. But I could use a drink.”
“Coming up. Vodka martini on the rocks?”
“Perfect.”
She took bottles and glasses from a cupboard. “I’ll join you.”
“Okay. After that I’m taking you out to dinner.” He smiled. “And no arguments this time.”
“Not a peep. Dinner sounds lovely.” She filled the glasses with ice from the freezer and went about pouring the vodka and vermouth.
She knew very well what was bothering him. He was frustrated and tired from working on the case. And no doubt this had been one of those tedious days in which nothing significant had happened and no progress had been made. So the day had also been boring, and that could be discouraging as well. It would do him good to relax.
She handed him a glass and said cheers. They touched rims and drank.
“Tomorrow,” Dana said, “will be better.”
Barker took another long pull on his drink. “I hope so.”
47.
Late the following day Barker joined Sam Benziger at LAPD headquarters, and they watched the news on a TV monitor. The program featured overhead shots of the freeways, while a male announcer droned on about how heavy traffic was moving slowly in all directions.
As if you couldn’t see it for yourself, Barker thought.
Then came a weather report, the gist of which was that conditions tomorrow would be about the same as today. And the smog would be just as bad.
Barker was getting antsy. “Come on,” he said, “let’s have it.”
“Patience,” Sam said. “I’ve already seen it twice today. They’ll show it again, I’m sure.”
As if her words were a cue, a female announcer appeared on camera. “We have a new development in the Catherine Delure murder case,” she said. “You’ll recall that the police are looking for someone they call a person of interest. This is an artist’s rendering of him.”
Cut to a copy of the composite, the one that showed the killer without the hair and mustache. In a voice-over, the announcer said, “If you recognize this man, please call the police hotline at the number you see at the bottom of the screen.”
Cut back t
o the announcer. “And now here’s the latest development. It seems the man has a tattoo on his left shoulder. I’m going to show you a drawing of it, and if you know who wears it, or if it’s in any way familiar to you, be sure to call the police hotline at once.”
Cut to a close-up of the drawing. Announcer, VO: “This is the tattoo. It’s about two inches in height, and as you can see, it’s in the shape of a fishhook. The Los Angeles Police Department is asking you for any information you can provide.”
Benziger turned off the set. “And there you are. TV’s giving it pretty good exposure.”
“So maybe we’ll get a bite,” Barker said.
“Don’t get your hopes too high. I’ve listened to the call-ins, and so far they’re worthless. You always expect there’ll be some wackos, but these people sound like they’re all nuts.”
“Nevertheless, I want to hear them.”
“Go right ahead,” Sam said. “The calls are automatically saved on a dedicated line, and as new ones come in, they’re added to the audiotape. Just call 27 on this phone, and you’ll get them.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. And how about your visit to Malibu? You talk to the manager at Ralphs?”
“Yeah, I did. He agreed to distribute the flyers to the clerks in the store, but he didn’t seem very optimistic. He said a lot of different people buy groceries there, and the clerks wouldn’t pay all that much attention to their appearance. Far as the tattoo was concerned, he just shrugged.”
“Maybe he’s right. But you never know. What about the Malibu police?”
“I gave them copies of the flyer, and their reaction was the same as the guy at Ralphs. One of them said tattoos are as common as freckles.”
“He has a point. But with the media showing the drawing, we might have some luck. Hope they keep on showing it.”
“They’ll give it a good run. Like I told you, they love anything that has to do with Delure.”
A detective in shirtsleeves stopped by Benziger’s desk. “Sam, the boss wants to see both of you.”
The Big Hit Page 28
